Here’s the thing…I wrote a book.
I have to say it that way now, because the rough draft exists. I’ve even let a few people read it and give me some basic feedback.
I have written a story about a young girl with an eating disorder who grew up to be a scientist, a mother, a person with bipolar disorder, a counselor, a drug addict, and at last a person who tries to balance all of these things.
It’s still got some editing ahead of it before I begin trying to take the next steps, but the fact that it exists is scary.
My second project, a full-length poetry compilation about the opioid epidemic, is also making frightening progress. I’d say it’s 60% done, including the hard part of deciding how to structure it.
What the actual fuck. How did this happen? If anyone had told me ten years ago…